This old rope

This old rope,

sun-baked stiff

behind the shed, still smells

like dirt and something

marine, though the ocean's miles

from here.

I tried to coil it,

but it fought me, splintering

into dry, scratchy fibers

that dusted my hands, tiny hairs

of beige, like a worn-out beard.

Each strand a memory

of holding, of pulling,

of being held together

just barely, some still tight,

some splayed out,

a kind of stubborn refusal to break

completely, even when useless.

It just sits there,

frayed and tough.